Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.

So I Rode

George was gone golfing so there would be no small engines ambushing around corners.

The temperature was moderate so there would be no sweaty streams snaking down my spine.

The wind was calm so there would be no forest gremlins blustering through the trees.

My truck was in the shop so there would be no convenient excuse to run errands on the To Do list.

There were no kids on dirt bikes across the field, no school busses on the roads, no garbage trucks or farm vehicles belching by on their appointed rounds.

So I rode.

The Tree Arch Bridge on the Very Scary Teeny Tiny Trail of Four Sticks Farm

There could be no fairer conditions for this fair-weather rider, no better opportunity to avoid many of the potentials for disaster wrought by scary, spooky, sudden sights, sounds, and specters, so for the first time in nearly a year, I psyched up, tacked up and mounted up on my big old painted pony.

The 2020 riding season was abbreviated by a First Ride fall that inflicted no physical damage, but left another ding on the confidence meter, which dropped riding Chicago to the bottom of the Pandemic Priority list.

Last summer’s adventure included a remarkable demonstration of the unspoken connection between horse and rider. I had just been thinking about how age and absence seemed to have left my seat conspicuously unbalanced in the saddle, and the thought had barely left my brain when Chicago decided to test the theory. It started with a crow, taloned prey in tow, lifting off our tiny, wooded trails, and ended with a striking aerial pas-de-deux, as Chicago copied the crow with his own version of airborne. Only while they both lifted up, I thudded down, on my propitiously padded back pockets.

As is our routine in this much-practiced performance, I stood, swore, and saddled up again, to finish our ride without incident. We had a couple more uneventful walks in the woods during the summer, but most of our time together after that included carrots and curry combs, farriers and fly spray, hay flakes and health care.

I’ve never been big in the brave department and in my Wisdom of Age file lies a thick folder of Chicago-caused confidence shakers. But my recent ride through the teeny tiny forest of Four Sticks Farm brought back memories more daring days. Reflection on our 20 years together reminds me that I’ve mustered up enough courage to persevere through a few problems, learn a few lessons and survived to tell the tale.

The truth is, I love that big red beast in my barn. A little look back at some of my long-ago posts will fill you in on a few of the less-than-stellar rides of our storied past. But you’ll also learn that Chicago has ponied children around the dusty arena and tolerated girls pressing painted hands on the coppery canvas of his ample girth. He’s allowed cats to wrap themselves around his legs, and kids to walk themselves under his belly. He’s ignored rowdy Rowdy’s attempts as self-appointed horse herder.

So, while I’m the one unceremoniously picking myself up, it’s not always him, sometimes it’s me, and most often, a little bit of both.

So, I’ll ride.

The Golden Shepherd and The Horse Who Will Not Be Herded

Catching Up

Lucky for me, my life is full of low-maintenance types, willing to tolerate long lapses in communication and picking up right where we left off when connection is re-established, with a mutual understanding and acceptance of the lives we lead.

The ponies put up with my series of short daily check-ins, probably because my presence, however brief, generally includes some sort of sustenance, and stomachs rule in their world. Chicago most always greets me with a nicker, especially if I start the dialog with “Hi Handsome”. Once in a while he’ll stand at the half-wall that divides the horse shelter from the barn porch, staring toward the house or my truck driving down the driveway. He’ll put on his softest, most mournful equine eyes and let out a high-pitched plaintive whinny that translates to something between I Miss You and You Owe Me.

I recently made my way back to the barn to finally finish the self-shedding process in which Biskit and Chicago were unintentionally engaged this spring. Turns out they united in a show of solidarity with their groom, each emerging from the pandemic period with a bigger belly and a broader backside, though unlike the horses’ seasonal surplus, it’s going to take a lot more than a few strokes of the shedding blade to whittle away my girth.

On the feline front, Fennel has assumed full responsibility for rodent removal around the barn, honing his skills on a daily basis. He courageously takes on mice, moles, voles and small songbirds, but remains leery of the tack room dehumidifier or anyone who doesn’t maintain permanent residence at Four Sticks Farm. He recently joined us on the deck, with much trepidation and tremendous mistrust of the patio furniture. Getting neither empathy nor encouragement from the green-eyed golden, he pushed past his inner Cowardly Lion and found comfort in a familiar lap.

Mace made it through his 14^th annual veterinary checkup without incident to self or vet staff, apparently mellowed by the passing of the Barn Patrol baton and all the pressure that goes with it. Hard to be surly when one spends one’s days snoozing in the sun on the barn porch or sleeping in the heat of the hayloft.

My yearly battle with the barn swallows flared up again last week. While I appreciate their assistance in mosquito control, I prefer they spend their downtime somewhere other than Biskit’s stall, as my experience in playing gracious host has proven the swallows to be houseguests from hell, who make a mighty mess, bring unending bunches of babies, and Never leave.

Rowdy revels in chasing the trespassers with his squeaker ball, so has added Bird Banishment to his daily duties. Border Collies clear geese off of runways, Goldens scare swallows out of barn aisles. Everybody has a job to do, however humble, and Rowdy is all in on making sure he does his well.

So that’s the latest friends. We’ve picked up and caught up on the month since my last post. I love the idea of weekly updates, and it remains a goal, albeit an elusive one, for the slow-processor who writes them. I recently enrolled in a 3-hour online writers’ course offering, among other things, strategies to develop a consistent writing process. So far, I haven’t taken the 3 hours to watch it.

But I’ll get there. Summertime is rife with subject matter at Four Sticks Farm – equine exploits, cat capers, and of course, endless ramblings with and about rowdy Rowdy.

Stay tuned, come back. In two weeks. Maybe three.

Life from a Different Angle

Chicago likes to remind me that the grass is truly greener on the other side of the fence. Even if the grass is last year’s hay and the other side is the barn aisle.

Though 19 years at Four Sticks Farm has allowed for the establishment of a solid chore routine, sometimes things just happen. During a recent lunchtime ritual, I forgot to close Chicago’s stall door, possibly distracted by Rowdy patrolling the pasture in search of something to eat, something to chase, or something in which to roll. Or maybe the disruption was Fennel, demanding I open the tack room door so he could sit in the opening, heating the unheated barn while he decided whether or not he felt up to an outdoor stroll or a hay pile inspection. Biskit may have been pounding the stall wall in protest of the sluggish service. It may have been the need to monitor a water bucket perched under the running faucet, precariously close to overflowing. Or Mace’s insistence that the Time For Which the Cat Dish Has Been Empty had now entered status Completely Unacceptable and required immediate attention.

In any case, The Big Red Beast opted for a little barn walkabout that ended right back at his stall, eating his ration from the outside looking in. With minimal encouragement he quietly returned to the confines of said stall, where he finished his lunch and settled into his bed of many shavings for the noontime nap.

No harm, no foul, just another little lesson in looking at the world through a different lens. Lots of ways to live your life. Or eat your hay. So let go of the judgement.

But do keep the cat dish filled.

Birthday Boys

May is a big birthday month here at Four Sticks Farm.

Boone begins the festivities on May Day, celebrated this year by a visit with Dr. Wilcox for his annual checkup. Other than the obviously rickety rear end, and some pretty gamey greyhound gingivitis, our Teen Idle is a healthy 13 year old hound.

Greyhound on bed

Two days later, Chicago turned an astonishing 21. Astonishing in that it’s been 15 years that this big red beast has taken up residence in my home and my heart, and we’re both still around to tell our tale.

Now that he’s reached the age of maturity, Chicago is finally starting to look more like the Paint horses on his pedigree, growing even more handsome, with all the spots showing up on his sorrel self.

His tail lightened a few years ago, but other than that, most of his color (besides the 3 white stockings that inspired his name) hid beneath his mane or under his belly. Now his white hair is out for all to see.

Finally, a horse who resembles his owner…

Paint horse

Rare is the blog entry missing mention of rowdy Rowdy, and this one is no exception. The gregarious golden turned 2 on May 17, inching his way out of puppyhood, with it’s built-in excuse for bad behavior. He continues to live with energy and enthusiasm, eager to engage in whatever life extends, always under the assumption that everyone else shares his excitement.

Someday, an owner who resembles her dog…

Golden retriever on blanket with books

Rowdy is only weeks away from his first official Therapy Dog gig, with the “Reading with Rowdy” program scheduled to start in mid-June. Our theme this summer is “Figure It Out”, initially intended as a reference to the series of mystery stories we’ll read, and puzzle games we’ll play, though I suspect it will apply equally to Rowdy’s effort to perfect his library manners.

And he will figure it out. Now that he is 2, the day grows ever closer that my happy hooligan masters impulse control.

And that will be a day of serious celebration.

Careful What I Wish For

The light is changing here at Four Sticks Farm, bringing hope of the spring soon to come. If only I can ignore the glare from the snow-covered ground that makes my eyes water and my nose run; the sting of the still-icy air that numbs my chin and reddens my ears; the grimly naked trees that expose the red squirrel who rejoices in tormenting the Happy Golden Hooligan, the feel, or lack thereof, of my fingers frozen one more time by scooping hay stems out of the automatic waterer and snapping the metal fasteners on Biskit’s blanket.

If I can ignore all that and look only at the brilliant blue sky, with a few wispy clouds and a big bright sun, I can believe.

It Will be spring. We will still see some snow and cold and ice and cool and slush and chilly. But spring will come. It always does, though it’s easy to forget that as we trudge through these bleak, record-cold days that are the weeks of February.

Horses at the fence Soon though, I will shed a layer of outdoor clothing from my barn chore apparel and strip a layer of horse hair and mud from my polar ponies.

Soon, I will start a spring conditioning program for my Big Red Beast.

But don’t tell Chicago that.

Soon, I will close off the pasture to allow it to grow without competition from equines eager for the pleasure of grazing green grass.

Don’t tell Chicago that either.

Soon, I will sweep down the winter-crusted cobwebs from the barn ceiling, slog through the alley mud to muck out the manure, drag out the paddock posts and divider fencing, wrestle 2 bulky blankets into plastic bags for transport to the tack store cleaners, curry off several more layers of horse hair and mud – first from the horses, then from their groom, clean and condition the tack that’s been hanging idle since September, scrub off the season-ending stall-window scum, wipe down and hang up the stall fans, towel off 8 muddy dog paws multiple times a day, lug deck furniture down from the garage-attic and up from the barn-shop.

Soon, it will be spring. Hmmm…

Let it snow!

Dog in the snow

Real Life

The Plan

Leisurely morning with hot coffee and the Sunday Sudoku, spring cleaning the mud ponies, a ride on the Big Red Beast, a groundwork session with the Portly Palomino, a long walk with rowdy Rowdy, a couple pots of flowers to plant, a peaceful evening on the deck with a stack of equine magazines and a gin and tonic.

Nowhere to go, nothing urgent to do, beautiful weather, perfect day.

The Reality

The pasture is ready for grazing, except that we haven’t replaced the paddock-dividing ropes that we remove for the winter. And the 2 paddocks that won’t be grazed this week need to be mowed. And George is leaving tomorrow for a week and I need his help with the dividers. So, drink most of a cup of coffee, leave the Sudoku for the later, head out to mow the pasture.

Except that the mower is not on the tractor, so while George is making the seasonal implement changes, which involves a fair amount of sighing and slamming and swearing, I decide to use the time productively and start hauling chairs from the barn to the deck, which reminds of how much stronger I used to be, and how much more yoga I should do, and how much I look forward to a gin and tonic on the deck.

John Deere good to go, I hop on and enjoy the opportunity to ride (even if it’s not the horsepower on which I planned) get some sun, and watch my muddy horses, who realize this activity means the end is near for their 2 month meadow moratorium. They monitor the action closely, especially when George brings out the spools of Electrobraid that separate the big field into 3 paddocks for rotational grazing. Nickering and pacing commence.

It occurs to me that we’re out of dog food and stall shavings, and Country Store closes at 2:00 on Sunday. George can install the dividers without my assistance. More accurately, George would prefer to install the dividers without my assistance, so I head into town for dog food and shavings. And a bag of potting soil. Rowdy rides along – a peace offering for the long walk he’s not going to get.

Once home, I back the truck into the barn, open up the pasture for Biskit and Chicago who stop, drop (their heads) and graze before getting 5 steps in. Since the first spring grazing sessions are short to prevent over-indulgence and it’s serious side effects, I can unload the 20 bags of shavings and complete a couple barn chores in perfect Pony Pasture Time.

DogAndHorsesInPasture

30 minutes later, Rowdy follows me out to bring in the horses, his first full, free access to them. I’m cautious, since he is, after all, a golden retriever, full of joie de vivre, confident that all he meets are friends (except for those menacing trash containers lurking at the end of every driveway on our Tuesday walks, but that’s a different post) but all goes well. The horses have apparently seen enough of him to cross him off the Very Scary list, and are more interested in grabbing one last mouthful of fresh greens than responding to the antics of a herding dog wannabe.

While I’m securing the gate to keep the horses where they need to be (vs. where they want to be) Rowdy runs up with a big golden grin, reminding me of the reason I don’t let the dogs have pasture access. It’s all fun and games until somebody rolls in something dead.

DogInTub

As I finish Rowdy’s de-stinking spa session I realize Boone is due for his semi-annual bath and blowout, and since the tack room and I are already wet and full of dog fluff, we might as well make it a Two Dog Day in the grooming room.

Boone’s weakened back-end, combined with his general apprehension of things related to, well almost anything, means that giving him a bath involves my left arm crooked under his belly to support 74 pounds of sagging greyhound while my right hand shampoos, rinses and repeats.

So. Happy horses, clean canines, just a few flowers to plant and it’s G & T time. Well, actually, then it’s time to bring the horses in the barn for their Snack and Snooze. And as I walk out of the barn , I notice the horse trailer parked outside and remember that I’ve not yet checked the electrical connection for the lights. Which I should do before I need to use the trailer. And the truck’s right here…

And now it’s supper time for the inside animals. And I really need a shower. And the sun is setting. And we’re out of tonic.

But there is still the Sudoku. And white wine.

Friends Around the Farm

Though taken in the early days, this picture captures the essence of Boone and Rowdy’s relationship of mostly mutual tolerance. Mostly Boone’s tolerance that is.

DogsCleaningTheirTeeth

This is about as close as Rowdy and Mace have been, which is just as well since Rowdy believes all the world’s a friend, just waiting to be pounced upon, and Mace is armed with a full set of sharp implements, and not afraid to use them.

BarnCatCaution

Chicago’s only interest is that Rowdy may get to that grass that’s always greener.

DogAndHorseAtFence

No matter how much Rowdy begs, Biskit refuses to play the squeaky toy chase game.

DogAndPony

The Bickersons – Mocha and Rowdy frequently enjoy a good sparring match.

CatAndDogSparring

… with the winner claiming dibs on the dog food dinner.

DogAndCat

Back in the Saddle 2016

After a minimum of two months on the ground, I finally saddled up and climbed on the back of The Big Red Horse yesterday. Given our lengthy lazy spell, it came as no surprise that the girth tightened two holes lower than last ride, and given my own refusal to even attempt to wrap a belt around my waist, I offered no judgment. However, a memory from last spring’s vet visit flashed a red warning light in my head. Last year Chicago stretched the weight tape (a nylon band that wraps around a horse’s girth to estimate its weight) to infinity and beyond, so we have 6-8 weeks to make sure Dr. Heather doesn’t have to bring the extension this time.

Off we went, onto our tiny wooded trail, where I couldn’t help but think of last spring’s first ride – a disastrous outing in which Chicago left me lying on my back in the woods while he bolted across the yard, around the barn and back again. He’d been spooked by a horse and buggy on the road 100 yards away, then parlayed the panic of Biskit and Rusty, who’d spotted the same vehicle from the safety of their pasture, into a full-blown fear fest.

I caught him on the lawn, (barely) relieved that he’d managed to avoid hurting himself by stepping on his reins; and climbed up, slightly sickened with the knowledge that we’d have to return to the scene of the crime and compose ourselves before we could call it day. He was at the height of Big Red Beastliness, prancing and puffing and threatening to explode as we made our way back, but this time I was more determined to stay calm and stay on than he was to get me off. So I stayed on.

That was then, this is now, I reminded myself. Fortunately for all concerned, this year’s First Ride bore no resemblance to that of 2015. The only vehicles on the road were appropriately powered by big engines, and though Chicago showed no concern about any of them, I will confess to breaking out in a couple calming verses of “The Wheels on the Bus” when the noisy yellow student-mobile passed by. Just in case.

To avoid a return to any of the rodeo rides of our past, I kept yesterday’s walk in the woods short. And safe. We returned to the barn, shared an apple and a preemptive dose of anti-inflammatory. A little grooming massagefor my big red friend, then back to the pasture with his friends. A good day for both of us.

We should do this more often…

Painted Pony

Several years ago, in an effort to encourage me to ride my Big Red Beast with a little more assertiveness, Dick told me I needed to give Chicago a cue he wouldn’t want to ignore. More to the point, I needed to “make him say, Damn!”

Two weeks ago, Chicago crossed back to the dark side of his younger years, and absolutely refused to take the left canter lead. We spent nearly 30 minutes trying every trick from his training bag, and the only cursing came from Dick. I was reminded of why he suggested we take up cart driving.

Last week, we worked outside; relaxed and quiet-minded, with a slow, stress-free, step-by-step plan of action. We started with the right lead, as that’s Chicago’s preferred side – set him up for success, start on the positive, right? So, I moved the hip, picked up the shoulder, and asked for the canter. His response? He took the left lead. Damn!

Today, we repeated our trail ride approach, with only a couple of canter departures, one incorrect, the other correct.

But here’s the thing – two weeks ago, the day after our dance on the dark side, Chicago agreeably acted as canvas for the artistic renderings of four Books in the Barn readers, allowing them to cover his coat with (pretty much) washable tempera paint, including “#1 Best Horse”, which spilled into the ticklish spot on his flank. And last week, he stood motionless as a 6 year old visitor took the shortcut under his belly to brush his other side.

On any lead, that’s a damn good horse.